G. K. Chesterton |
Gilbert Keith Chesterton is not widely read today, and is probably best known for his ‘Father Brown’ detective stories, but during his lifetime he was a bestselling novelist, a noted wit and a literary celebrity. He had a formidable intellect but a wayward mind; he attended art school and flirted with the idea of a political career, but it was only when he began writing journalism for the thriving magazine and newspaper market of 1890s London that he found his place in the world.
Chesterton as a boy and young man had no interest in religion, but as he reached his twenties he was increasingly attracted to Christianity. He met Frances Blogg, the daughter of a diamond merchant of French descent, in 1896, and her devout Anglo-Catholicism informed his own religious beliefs. His letter to her below is a model of charm, self-deprecation, wit and affection. They were married in 1901.
It was in the years leading up to the Great War that Chesterton’s fame was at its height. He certainly cut an arresting figure; vast (six foot four) and vastly overweight, he habitually wore a cloak and a broad-brimmed hat, and was a fixture in the public houses around Fleet Street. (A famous anecdote has him telling his friend George Bernard Shaw, ‘To look at you, anyone would think there was a famine in England,’ to which Shaw replied, ‘To look at you, anyone would think you caused it.’)
In 1909, Frances decided that he needed to be removed from London and its temptations, and they moved to Beacons field in Buckinghamshire. Their marriage was happy, although their not having children was a source of sadness to both.
Chesterton’s post-war writing was increasingly religious and mystical, and he finally converted to Catholicism in 1922. His work was disfigured by anti-Semitism, and while his admirers have made the case that it was variously 1) not that extreme and 2) part and parcel of the time in which he lived, the accusation cannot be dismissed. He died in 1936 at home in Beacons field; Frances survived him.
. . . I am looking over the sea and endeavouring to reckon up the estate I have to offer you. As far as I can make out my equipment for starting on a journey to fairyland consists of the following items.
1st. A Straw Hat. The oldest part of this admirable relic shows traces of pure Norman work. The vandalism of Cromwell’s soldiers has left us little of the original hat-band.
2nd. A Walking Stick, very knobby and heavy: admirably fitted to break the head of any denizen of Suffolk who denies that you are the noblest of ladies, but of no other manifest use.
3rd. A copy of Walt Whitman’s poems, once nearly given to Salter, but quite forgotten. It has his name in it still with an affectionate inscription from his sincere friend Gilbert Chesterton. I wonder if he will ever have it.
4th. A number of letters from a young lady, containing everything good and generous and loyal and holy and wise that isn’t in Walt Whitman’s poems.
5th. An unwieldy sort of a pocket knife, the blades mostly having an edge of a more varied and picturesque outline than is provided by the prosaic cutler. The chief element however is a thing ‘to take the stones out of a horse’s hoof’. What a beautiful sensation of security it gives one to reflect that if one should ever have money enough to buy a horse and should happen to have a stone in his hoof – that one is ready; one stands prepared, with a defiant smile!
6th. Passing from the last miracle of practical foresight, we come to a box of matches. Every now and then I strike one of these, because fire is beautiful and burns your fingers. Some people think this a waste of matches: the same people who object to the building of Cathedrals.
7th. About three pounds in gold and silver, the remains of one of Mr Unwin’s bursts of affection: those explosions of spontaneous love for myself, which, such is the perfect order and harmony of his mind, occur at startlingly exact intervals of time.
8th. A book of Children’s Rhymes, in manuscript, called ‘Weather Book’ about ? finished, and destined for Mr Nutt. I have been working at it fairly steadily, which I think jolly creditable under the circumstances. One can’t put anything interesting in it. They’ll understand those things when they grow up.
9th. A tennis racket – nay, start not. It is a part of the new regime, and the only new and neat-looking thing in the Museum. We’ll soon mellow it – like the straw hat. My brother and I are teaching each other lawn tennis.
10th. A soul, hitherto idle and omnivorous but now happy enough to be ashamed of itself.
11th. A body, equally idle and quite equally omnivorous, absorbing tea, coffee, claret, sea-water and oxygen to its own perfect satisfaction. It is happiest swimming, I think, the sea being a convenient size.
12th. A Heart – mislaid somewhere. And that is about all the property of which an inventory can be made at present. After all, my tastes are stoically simple. A straw hat, a stick, a box of matches and some of his own poetry. What more does man require?
